<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Dirty little secret by Rakshasha</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182050">Dirty little secret</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rakshasha/pseuds/Rakshasha'>Rakshasha</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>if it feels good, tastes good (it must be mine) [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dirty Talk, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Smut, Stiles has some feels and some alone time in the shower, a smudge of praise kink too, though... is he truly alone?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:07:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,092</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182050</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rakshasha/pseuds/Rakshasha</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles can’t remember when was the last time he was this strung tight – and not from the stress of everything falling apart, but aching and <em>throbbing</em> deep in his gut, almost feverish from the already fading dream that still sings in his blood, hot and thrumming. </p><p>The dawn has barely broken as he woke up, whimper slipping past cracked lips, writhing in sheets too tangled, too restricting, skin slick and covered in sweat. Vaguely he can recall long fingers digging into his flesh, cool yet leaving him absolutely burning, wet mouth on his skin, a hint of too sharp teeth – riding the edge of pain and pleasure.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nogitsune/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>if it feels good, tastes good (it must be mine) [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dirty little secret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afanwithglasses/gifts">Afanwithglasses</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This little something was the first smut thing I wrote for LitA way back in the beginning, but because of that it doesn't fit anywhere in the story now, so seeing as it works on its own, I decided to just post it separately as a small treat and thank you to all of my lovely readers! And a special one for <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afanwithglasses/pseuds/Afanwithglasses">Afanwithglasses</a>, for all of our lovely chats and the circle of giddiness that continues on, I hope you'll enjoy this little thing ❤<br/>I guess you could think of this as a sort of missing scene for LitA, but also just as a thing on its own - no need to know the story or anything. This is just Stiles yearning in the shower, lmao. </p><p>Hope y'all will enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This is the last thing he should be thinking about. The literal last, what with the whole mess happening all around them, people dropping dead, the pack tearing at the seams, but maybe– maybe that’s exactly the reason for it.</p><p>Stiles can’t remember when was the last time he was this strung tight – and not from the stress of everything falling apart, but aching and <em>throbbing</em> deep in his gut, almost feverish from the already fading dream that still sings in his blood, hot and thrumming.</p><p>The dawn has barely broken as he woke up, whimper slipping past cracked lips, writhing in sheets too tangled, too restricting, skin slick and covered in sweat. Vaguely he can recall long fingers digging into his flesh, cool yet leaving him absolutely burning, wet mouth on his skin, a hint of too sharp teeth – riding the edge of pain and pleasure. His rune tingles, too hot, but he vehemently ignores it.</p><p>„Fuck<em>, </em>goddammit–”</p><p>Legs trembling underneath him, Stiles throws away the sheets and walks straight to the bathroom, losing the sweatpants and boxers along the way. He doesn’t dare to look into the mirror, not when the skin at the back of his neck prickles in recognition and the splash of water barely raises above the blood rushing in his ear. But the cool spray Stiles steps under only serves for more fevered shivers, crackling along his spine straight down to his throbbing cock. Heavy and weeping as his muscles strain in protest.</p><p>He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, not with the knowledge of what, exactly, the tugging in his chest means but it’s driving him <em>mad</em>, the way he wants, needs, <em>yearns</em>.</p><p>Gasp slipping past his mouth, Stiles takes his dick in hand, <em>aching, </em>and braces himself on the tiled wall, forearm pressed to the cool surface. The second he tightens his hold, fingers dragging up, up, all the way to the tip, his knees buckle.</p><p>„<em>Fuck</em>,” he all but hisses, teeth clenched tight, working his cock as slowly as he’s able to with the insistent pull under his rune, pushing and prodding and spurring him on.</p><p>His hand feels rough on oversensitive flesh, catching on wet skin and gripping with spasming muscles. It’s too much, too much–</p><p>Not <em>enough</em>.</p><p>Cool droplets slip down the ridges of his spine like a caress and his hips buckle, moan painting the walls.</p><p>„<em>Void</em>–<em>”</em></p><p>The whine is out before he could stop it, before he could even register it slipping past his trembling lips, before the thought that <em>he</em> <em>should stop</em> cuts through his lust-glazed mind – but he couldn’t, <em>no</em>, didn’t <em>want to</em> stop. Teeth catching on his wrist to muffle any other sound, forehead braced on the wall, Stiles builds up the tension rigid in his whole body and works his hand faster, twisting<em>, </em>wishing–</p><p>Ethereal, feather-light caress presses to his back all the way from his thighs to his shoulders, pushes at his body intangible and hard, digging sharply into his hips and nuzzling just behind his ear. Stiles shuts his eyes tight, moaning on the wrist he’s biting too hard, his chest all but heaving.</p><p><em>Go on, little fox, you’re doing so well</em>.</p><p>It drips down his skin like liquid chocolate, rasps along his nerves white-hot and <em>burning</em>; dark and deep and right under his ear, murmured like the dirtiest kind of secret not allowed out loud. Stiles should hate how it makes him buckle, how it traps the whimpers in his chest and makes the fever worse by tenfold but so fucking sweet he wants <em>more.</em></p><p><em>So perfect for me, </em>the voice purrs, scorching against his neck, the warmth at his back and the chill of the shower racking through his body in sync with his thrusts, rough pace getting erratic. <em>I’d fuck you if I could</em>.</p><p>Stiles mewls, muffles it in his skin, jaw going slack with the way his groin pulses, throbs, builds up to heat so fierce it’s almost too much.</p><p><em>I’d fuck you raw, kitten, I’d fuck you as hard and as long as it'd take until you couldn't scream for me anymore, until you'd be covered in</em> my <em>bruises</em>.<em> And you’d like that, wouldn’t you, little fox? You’d sing so prettily for me.</em></p><p>The growl shudders through Stiles’ body, right against the valley of his neck and deep, deep in the pooling heat. His pace falters, the burning in his gut coiled so impossibly hard Stiles practically sobs into his wrist, co close, so close, <em>please</em>–</p><p><em>Come on, darling, let it go. </em>Something digs into his hips harder, pushes at his back, a hint of sharpness at his neck. <em>Come for me, Stiles.</em></p><p>And Stiles cries out as teeth bite in the curve of his neck, <em>hard</em>, skin breaking and flesh tearing and his whole body writhing in pure, blood-hot ecstasy that paints his flesh red and the walls white, long spurts of cum washed down with water. It pulses and throbs and steals any and all rational thought, dripping down with little mewls Stiles couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. The pleasure swims in his veins and he works himself through it, rough and slow, skin dragging against skin until the feel of over-stimulation reaches the edge of <em>pain</em>, then releases his grip and slumps against the wall.</p><p>He trembles with the aftershocks that send sparks down his spin, body feeling like an exposed live-wire and shuddering at the water hitting oversensitive flesh. Spent and barely holding himself up, Stiles doesn’t dare to turn or open his eyes as the phantom press fades, leaving behind just the barest hint of warmth – a reminder, a comfort or straight-up torture, tantalizing and teasing. Only when the tug in his chest lessens, the ghostly sensation vanishing, Stiles turns, changes the water to scalding hot and scrubs himself almost raw, carefully avoiding his neck, banishing any and all thought of what happened. As he steps out of the shower and slowly dries too sensitive skin, his heart runs an erratic beat, but he chances a glance in the mirror.</p><p>Nothing’s there. His neck is bare of any evidence.</p><p>Something fierce and aching burns in his chest at the sight. Stiles swallows through dry throat, licks at his lips, then pushes it forcefully away.</p><p>It’s a school day, for fuck’s sake, and as he walks out of the bathroom, his watch reminds him he’ll be late with the current pace. Even though he had plenty of time as he woke up.</p><p>Colorful choice of words trapped inside his lungs, Stiles catches his backpack.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kudos make me smile and comments give me life. Please, feel free to scream at me, I crave reactions and they fuel my writing! Hope y'all enjoyed this one! </p><p>As always you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - <a href="https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/">link</a> here - lots of rambling, snippets and behind-the-scene over there! All the love ❤</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>